


Silent Waters Run Deep

by TheChoas



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Developing Relationship, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mrs. Huson was right all along, The Science of Deduction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-25
Updated: 2019-07-25
Packaged: 2020-07-19 13:04:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19974538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheChoas/pseuds/TheChoas
Summary: There is something off about John. It all started a couple of weeks ago when they watched the second video Mary left behind, yet if it's not the grief keeping him so distant, what is it?In which Sherlock deals with emotions and in that comes to the conclusion why his soldier is in such a bad mood all the time.





	Silent Waters Run Deep

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t know why exactly I wrote this (since I’m not even sure whether I ship Johnlock or not). But this idea wouldn’t get out of my head and well... to say it with Sherlock’s words, “I am bored!“)  
> Just for your information before you read: I tried to focus more on Sherlock’s inner thoughts and in that tune out what was unimportant (see: the lack of description of certain places/things sometimes). You will know what I mean when you read it.  
> Have fun.
> 
> P.S: This takes place after the last episode of Season 4.

He hears him before he sees him. The careful yet heavy steps that indicate John must be carrying his daughter. The loud bang as the front door slams shut without the following speech coming from Mrs. Hudson that he should care about the old house instead of trying to ruin the lock since she is too caught up in cooing over the small girl that is basically living with them at this point.  
John has given up the house just two month prior, stating that there are too many memories shared with his deceased wife and that for him as a single parent, it is too expensive. Sherlock was thrilled to have him back at their old apartment even if that meant that he has to keep up with a steadily growing toddler now that disturbs his thoughts and messes up his experiments and notes. Not to mention that he has to look after where he places and leaves his knives and guns now.  
The steps on the staircase are sounding softer than normally, even if Watson stumbles over one step when his daughter screeches in joy. He has probably toed his shoes off since it had been raining pretty hard during the last hour and didn’t want to ruin Mrs. Hudson’s carpets more than they are already doing it by living out their usual manners and letting people of every level of tidiness inside their home.

Exactly five seconds later, a quite exhausted looking Watson is carrying a tinier version of himself (who seems to be more than energy filled though) into the living room and greets his fried with a merely mumbled, “Hello”.

“Well somebody had a bad day,” Sherlock says and walks over to take the giddy child out of John’s arms. The little girl clings to his neck as soon as he is in her reach, chuntering to herself and kicking out her small legs in joy of being held by one of her favorite people. How this little human is so attached to him, not even Sherlock can explain.

John glares at him as he places Rosie’s bag on the floor and then straightens up to stretch out his spine. “You are no genius for deducing that.”

“Of course I’m not,” Sherlock retorts and spins around to walk over to the kitchen, “Even an idiot like Lestrade could see it in your face but he probably wouldn’t know that it is bad enough that you have went to the bar on the street next to Rose’s kindergarten to drink away your misery for what… one and a half hours?”

The sigh that John lets out somehow doesn’t sound as annoyed as it normally would, confirming Sherlock’s deduction even further.

“Do you want me to ask how you know this or will you tell me already and then stop feeling so smug?”

Sherlock lets the little girl sit down in her high chair at one of small edges of the table before he begins to prepare some tea for both of that. During all of it, he refuses to look at his best friend.“Your shoes and socks are wet, it’s a given that you have been walking on the flooded pavement but you jacket is dry as fresh laundry, so you have been inside somewhere. Work ends at 3 for you lately, it started to rain at half past four so you must have been either at the medical practice still or you have searched refuge somewhere else. Now, there is a slightly blue shimmer to your lips, you have a thing for red wine lately and since walking from our workplace to Rosie’s kindergarten takes half an hour and it has only stopped raining about fifteen minutes ago, you must have spent quite some time there – about one and a half hours if we count all of it together.”

By the time he is finished with his little explanation, the water in the kettle is already bubbling and a high chirping noise indicates that it has the right temperature. Without even checking that everything is right, Sherlock blindly fills the cups that John has already put onto the blank space next to his right elbow. It has become a well-known routine by then.

“Great,” Watson says. Now he does sound annoyed, “Thanks for showing off once again. Yes, my day was shit if you must know.”

The next sentence that flows out of Sherlock’s mouth surprises both of them. “Tell me about it then.”

It is nothing new that the detective cares, of course, but it is one of the rare times that he suggests it himself and doesn’t just listen to Watson spilling his heart freely and without paying attention to whether it matters to Sherlock or not. Both of them know that the man does in fact listen, closely and attentively to offer (more or less) helpful advice or to just make sure that his best friend is feeling better after letting it all out.  
So John does eventually tell his whole story that, to cut it short, is basically just a row of things not working out how they should have. But there is something else, something deeper that the shorter male doesn’t say out loud, Sherlock is sure, because even if his day wasn’t the best – none of the events would have justified drinking during the day and before picking up his daughter at that.  
Yet, Sherlock decides not to pry. Trying to get information out of John that he isn’t willing to give on his own has proven itself to be a very bad idea. It has ended in screaming quite often and even with a slap in the face once. Speaking from experience, it is better to let the small man come to him on his own.  
With another kind of dramatic sigh, John falls onto his chair – cup slamming onto the table and a little bit of hot water splashing out of it. His kid is startled by the noise and mumbles gibberish while widening her eyes with tears glistening in them.

“My dear Watson,” Sherlock whispers and walks over to the child, “Your father is only in a bit of a bad mood, nothing to worry about.”

He reaches out his hand and immediately gets the wanted reaction. Somehow, Rosie is fascinated by the detective’s fingers and loves to play with them whenever she gets the chance. One of her favorite games is trying to bend them while Sherlock is doing his best to keep them straightened. He surrenders sooner rather than later, of course, because not winning makes the girl tear up, too. And, as much as some people may think, Sherlock is not that much of a monster that it joys him to make her lose and cry. Quite the contemporary actually.

“Great, now my own daughter likes you more than her own father,” John mutters and shakes his head before burying it in his forearms that are lying on the table. Sherlock would make a bad joke about it but seeing him like this, actually upset and disarmed, he just stands up and walks over to his friend to sit down beside him.

“That’s not true and you know it,” he says and tentatively reaches out for him, too. At one point after John has come to closure with Mary’s death, when they have been in the living room after Sherlock has come out of the hospital when Smith has tried to kill him, Sherlock has come to the conclusion that a great way of calming his best friend or to ground him is to stroke his neck or hair. So that is exactly what he is doing down. Just trailing his fingertips down the man’s nape and upwards again to rake them though the grey hair.

“You are the only one that can put her to sleep in the evenings. She only accepts food from you, she throws it into my face whenever I try to feed her. Her first word was ‘Dada’ even if it was mumbled and…probably not intentional but who cares about that, after all she is just a small creature who can’t even control her bladder or-“

“Sherlock,” John mutters into his arms, “Shut up.”

Leave it to the detective to ruin the attempt to cheer his friend up.

Apparently, there is no limit for sighing that day. This time, it is Sherlock, though. “I’m sorry.”

“No, I… I am.” John sits up and gazes up to the taller man with droopy eyes. The capillaries in his eyes seem to be much brighter and more prominent then they usually are. Add to that the saggy skin, the more visible wrinkles and the swollen eyelids and you have the perfect proof that Watson must have slept like shit last night again. “I shouldn’t let my mood out on you when it’s… Forget it. I will go take a bath. Mrs. Hudson would probably love to have Rosie for a bit.”

“I can-“ Sherlock says, yet the offer that he could also watch over her falls silent on his lips when his best friend just stands up, ignores any further attempt on conversation, grabs his child and disappears with her. What is left is only the image of the girl making grabby-waving gestures as she is carried away. And Sherlock is left to wonder what exactly he has been doing wrong even more than usually.

_“It’s all about the stories, the legends, the adventures. There is a last refuge for the desperate, the unloved, the persecuted. There is a final court of appeal for everyone. When life gets too strange, too impossible, too frightening – there is always one last hope. When all else fails, there are two men sitting arguing in a scruffy flat, like they have always been there and they always will. The best and wisest men I have ever known – my Bakerstreet Boys: Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.”_

Sherlock sighs as Mary’s voice falls silent, then he pauses the video and rewinds it to see it from the beginning yet again. It is the seventh time he sees her smiling face then. And, like the past six times, he speaks every single word of those bloody one minute and fifty seconds with her because, of course, he knows them by heart.

 _“P.S.: I know you two and if I’m gone, I know what you could become.”_ Sherlock’s voice becomes silent at this, blood pounding in his ears as his heartbeat rises, but his lips keep moving, _“because I know who you really are. A junkie who solves crimes to get high and the doctor who never came home from the war. Will you listen to me, who you really are doesn’t matter.”_

He basically slams his finger on the remote to stop the video. Mary’s face is frozen on the flat screen, still knowingly smiling down at him. It’s obvious that she is not mad, if anything it is the exact opposite but Sherlock also sees the hesitation in the way her shoulders are tensed and scrunched up as if she wants to shield herself from something. The truth that she didn’t actually want to voice, maybe, or the storm of upcoming emotions.

That words strikes something inside of Sherlock’s chest – emotions. He can read people like open books, hell, it is about as easy to find out everything somebody did in the last couple of hours as if he is watching a movie about that person’s life and still, human feelings are making Sherlock queasy.  
It is not difficult understanding the reasons of people’s actions when it comes to anger or maybe even jealousy, fear is alright too but actual fondness and love are things that won’t get into Sherlock’s mind. Yes, he knows that he has a certain licking towards people like Mrs. Hudson, like his parents and (sometimes, but only once or twice a year) maybe even Mycroft – but other than that? That is in Sherlock’s interest about as much as the question whether the sun is rotating about the earth or the other way around. Who even cares about that?  
What could be the reason why his mind is once again having field days. Not in the fun way, no. Oh how much Sherlock would give for Lestrade to just involve him in some kind of ‘unsolvable mystery’, serial killer maybe, another row of suicides, a whole restaurant filled with people who die from poison would be alright too but no, Lestrade has to be gone for two weeks because apparently, most persons need holidays from time to time. And since nobody else in the police department is willing to work with him, Sherlock sits in his flat and has solved all the interesting cases for his private clients.

There is so much free time, so many hours of boredom that not nicotine patches, not cocaine, nothing can keep him occupied for longer than a couple of minutes. Bloody hell, by now Sherlock actually contemplates becoming a murderer himself to spice things up. Well, to commit another murder to be exact but who is counting such a great bastard like Magnussen into a category of homicides that actually matter.

The abrupt movement of him standing up pushes the armchair he is always sitting in a little back on the carpet, his open coat sways in the draught that even makes the papers next to his violin flatter. Not even composing or playing is enough to stop his mind for just a single second. Instead, his thoughts fly towards Sherrinford and the last time he has used his violin.  
Closing his eyes, Sherlock slowly brings both palms together, rises them towards his face and gently dips his head until his forehead touches the tips of his thumbs.

Eurus.

As always, that name makes a shiver run down his spine. All the memories of her trapping them come back crashing down on him. All at once. It wouldn’t really surprise anybody that Mycroft as well as John and himself have suffered something like slight PTSD after these fateful days. Sherlock vividly remembers the dead look in his brother’s eyes whenever they have met from then on – the guilt, the pain, the sleepless nights, everything. But as well he recalls meeting John in the kitchen at 3 am because both of them weren’t able to fall asleep without re-living those days in their dreams even though they should have been celebrating that Rosie finally slept through the nights.

During that time, Sherlock has taken case after case, boring and interesting alike only to get his bloody mind to shut up. And really, he doesn’t want to mention how filled his drug-sheet was once or twice when Mycroft found him, more than once, in allies or abounded buildings. That being fact, it is not surprising that Sherlock has trouble getting some events in the right order. There are still some empty spots in his mind concerning this time that he will probably never fill. Sherlock is only glad that John has been too caught up in taking care of his daughter to notice how bad his physical state actually had been. Then again, Watson has never been the most observant person in the world.

Still, Sherlock has been going to this hell on earth to visit his sister at least once a month so far.

At first, they have only played their violins together, watching the other while creating their own masterpieces of music. By now, things have changed. More often than not, Eurus had made an effort to talk to her brother, to actually communicate although it was in the only way both of them know – through deductions of the other, questions concerning their early life and Mycroft. Much to Sherlock’s dismay, their conversations have seemed to always result in the same thing. Something Eurus vehemently tries to talk Sherlock into and that Sherlock strongly disagrees to.

The same thing is it that Sherlock once again comes to hate when John is sitting in his usual armchair, newspaper in both hands as he tries to pretend that he is reading. He is not fooling anybody, though, with how his eyes keep coming up to watch Sherlock who is standing in front of the window. Hell, Watson hasn’t even changed the page he is looking at for more than twenty minutes now!  
It’s even more obvious that his mind seems to always wander off in how determined his face sometimes looks only to crumple into unsureness again with the small wrinkles on his forehead and between his eyes deepening in concern and concentration. Then he pretends to read again only to watch Sherlock not even half a minute later. And really, the detective is clueless what all the bother is about.

It’s not about his daughter, he would otherwise unconsciously rub the skin behind his ear where he once put the fake white flower when Eurus approached him for the first time. Mary is not bothering him either, then he would bring his hands together to feel the now empty space where once his wedding ring has once sat. Work can’t be it since John always complains about it but then lets it be as soon as he has voiced his misery. Now what could it be?  
Judging by the way his gaze seems stuck on himself, Sherlock supposes that it has something to do with himself. Then again he has not behaved any different from how he normally is and since they have known each other for half a decade now, Watson is probably the very one person who is actually used to the detective’s unruly, mostly rude antics. But Sherlock has to admit that the dynamic between them does seem to have changed over the past couple of days – maybe weeks even. Now that he has come to think about it, there has been something off about his friend’s behavior after they have found the second video Mary left behind.

_“P.S.: I know you two and if I’m gone, I know what you could become.”_

Sherlock turns around and faces the man who is doing his maddest to stay focused on the news. Then he gazes down the chair and his eyes stay fixed on some simple, discolored lines.

“I have been blind,” Sherlock growls and begins pacing up and down the living room of their apartment, “so bloody stupid as if I was a normal person and not, well, me!” His right foot slides out of his slipper but he just lets it be, doesn’t even notice it properly, and continues to run full kilometers in the tiny flat.

John is just sitting in his chair, newspaper still ignored and almost dropping to the floor from his knees where he has laid it down as soon as the detective has started being his usual wonderful self.

“What exactly is it, Sherlock? “

The agitated man let’s out an annoyed huff, his morning gown flaring behind him as he turns around to face his friend. “The exact spot that your fingers are lying on right in this chair has some trails in it where you have grabbed the fabric over and over again. It could be a habit or just a way to cope with some of our rougher cases but since you are a soldier and very much used to always being on your best behavior and to all the blood and misery, that’s most likely not what it is. No. Instead it could be a sign of nervousness. Why nervousness now?”

John’s eyes are fixed on his face and although his gaze is hard and threatening, there lies more behind it. Defensiveness maybe. Or slight fear.

Still, Sherlock just keeps talking. “Sure, there are a lot of things going on in your mind. Rosie, Mary’s death, the steady knowledge that your life has already reached its peak and is now seeming to be steadily going downhill.”

“Wonderful, Sherlo-“

“Nevertheless,” the detective continues, arms slowly going behind his back so that he can entangle his fingers while coming to halt in front of John, “that is not what’s bothering you, is it.” He slowly crouches down in front of him.

They are on the same level now. Almost two feet apart but so close right the same instant. Even Sherlock feels quite clammy like this. His chest tightens and his stomach does a tiny little flip but he ignores it for now, just how he has always ignored it up to this point.

He cocks his head a little. “The sweaty hands, the dilating pupils, the attentive care. Not to mention that your mind always seems to be elsewhere lately, you are in a bad mood when you are not around me and when you are, you still keep your distance even more than usually. And it all started with Mary’s video.”

For a moment, there is nothing but deafening silence. It is second nature to Sherlock to analyze each and everybody by their looks, their expressions and the way they hold themselves. But for once in his lifetime, Sherlock has actually no clue what is going on in his best friend’s mind. Not to mention that he has never wished to be right about his deductions as much as he is now.  
Judging by the way John leans forwards in his armchair – challenging, almost, while looking so sincerely done with everything – Sherlock is not the only one who has enough of the other’s behavior. So he blurts it all out as if he isn’t afraid at all. Perhaps he really isn’t and there is the first thing that Sherlock has been seeing in the completely wrong light… yet when John begins to talk, it’s finally so blaringly obvious what is going on.

“You have only gotten one very essential thing wrong…” For a moment, there is some heavy silence hanging between them. And Sherlock actually considers climbing on the roof of the hospital and jumping down for real this time.

Thankfully, John continues to talk before the taller man can even stand up again. “It didn’t start with Mary’s video. It’s been five years, Sherlock. Five bloody years. I can’t believe the ‘greatest detective of all time’ has actually been so oblivious.“

It seems like Sherlock has lost his voice. Five years, that is what it is.

“So you have been flirting with me when we were working on that first case,” he muses.

John, first totally speechless then obviously flustered, laughs and turns his head to the side so that he doesn’t have to look at the man. “Shut up.”

There is the faint siren of a police car blaring in the background, as well as the usual traffic that clogs the streets of London each day, every day. Added to that, the quiet ticking of the clock that is placed next to Sherlock’s scull and both of their shallow breathing are all the sounds that fill the air between them. It’s uncomfortable to say at least, because of them don’t know what to say, how to react, how to talk with the other from then on.  
Feelings are completely new ground for Sherlock since nothing has ever compared to the situation he finds himself trapped in now. Yes, he has had a long time to think about it and to get used to the whole concept of… being attracted…to somebody but this doesn’t mean that this makes everything easier. Not even Mycroft with his always helpful advices was able to ease Sherlock’s mind in that matter.

He remembers vividly how his older brother has always suspected something in that direction – and acted on it only when it was too late. Back when John and Mary got married, he didn’t manage to get to the party (nobody knows why) to give Sherlock his moral support. The detective had to suffer through the whole day alone, give a speech during which he basically confessed to his best friend in front of everybody since he was too bloody nervous to actually say what he had rehearsed.  
It was only when Sherlock has left early, walking home instead of taking a cab even though it was cold and windy, that he has noticed how much Mycroft actually worries about him. His older brother had waited for him in his apartment, sitting on the sofa that is pushed up against the wall only to jump up as soon as Sherlock has entered.

“Oh Sherlock,” he has said and that was all it took for the detective to crumble since he has been sure as hell that this was the end. The end of an Era, the end of a great friendship, the end of all hope. It was the first time after his jump from the roof that Sherlock has cried, in the arms of his brother at that. It came as no surprise that the drugs came for him soon after – Magnussen was only a welcomed excuse in that matter to justify himself. Not to mention all the other shit that went down during the last year even after Mary’s death. Sherlock could still kill Eurus for playing this bloody game with them that almost cost his soldier’s life.

“Sherlock, if you would please say something so that I can stop feeling like an idiot,” John eventually shakes him out of his thoughts.

The detective shrugs, “Well, you always say that I am either a bloody drama-queen or a giant cock. Insults are a coping mechanism when people feel small or downgraded so there is probably nothing out of the ordinary in you feeling like an idiot when I am in the same room.”

“Okay, you know what? I take it back.” He grabs the newspaper and stands up, “I haven’t felt anything in the last five years.”

Sherlock reciprocates the movement and straightens up, too, so that he is slightly towering over the doctor. And both of them just stop and stare for a couple of long, silent moments.  
Now that he has actual proof, Sherlock is absolutely certain about this. John looks vulnerable, sure, with how he is curled into himself a little, as if hiding his chest from the other man would somehow keep him safe from unwanted emotional pain in retrospect to how confident he always hold himself in the I-am-a-soldier-posture. It was the first thing Sherlock has found out about him and dear, if he hasn’t come to cherish that small detail over the years. Add to that the button up, plaid shirts, the cozy sweaters and the comfortable pants (basically the style of every men that has reached the age of 60), the already grey hair and the rare but so honest smiles and you have the sole reason why the one and only Sherlock Holmes has started to feel something. For the first time since he can remember.

“I-“ Sherlock starts but for once, he can’t seem to find the right words to say. Somehow, he has a déjà vu from the time John asked him to be his best man. Overwhelmed, happy to some extent but this time, he is missing the slightly breaking heart of realizing that it was now too late to take his move. Still, not saying a single word is wrong in so many ways that-

“Can I say something first?”

Leave it to John to know exactly what to say and what to do in a situation where others lose their heads. A solider indeed. At last to Sherlock it feels exactly like standing on the battle field.

He just nods.

“When we first met… I was intimidated by you. Of course I was, you were tall and good-looking and super smart and seemed to look right through me and-“ John cuts himself off to laugh sarcastically at himself while he throws the papers onto his chair.

“Nothing much has changed since then, has it? I couldn’t understand why Stamford would even introduce us as flatmates because we were so different. It was only when he called me after receiving the invitation to Mary’s and my wedding that I understood. “You are so damn stupid, Watson,” he said, “You are marrying the wrong person.”.”

At that even a small smile tugs at Sherlock’s lips even before John can continue to speak.

“I knew he was trying to set us up,” the detective muses, “But since you so strongly disagreed when I thought you were flirting with me, I came to the conclusion that he had made some wrong deductions concerning you – just like most people do.”

John rolls his eyes harder than he normally does. “He wouldn’t make wrong conclusions, Sherlock. We lived together while studying at the hospital and one night he came back home earlier than he was supposed to. I wasn’t alone that evening and I wasn’t with a girl, is that enough of an explanation for the greatest detective of all time?”

Sherlock already opens his mouth to answer but the doctor just continues to talk, his gaze still not breaking away from their eye contact. They have been staring at each other like this for so many times already but it has never, not once, been like this where everything is out in the open and so bloody vulnerable.

“But back to the topic… You know I was devastated when you died, Sherlock. I have lost count of how many times I had the gun in my hand and pressed to my temple, really. So when Mary came around and we got to know each other and she was so obviously interested I thought I could make this work and forget you. But you came back.”

Now he does shake his head before letting it hand and fleeing from the look in his best friend’s face. It is rare that they talk about these times. Hell, those times are barely more than one of them can count on a single hand’s fingers.

“Of course, Mary was still there and she had already agreed to marry me,” he continues and shrugs as if it is not a big deal when his tension clearly speaks of something else, “And I really thought I could go on with my life like this because in all honesty, Sherlock, I never thought that you would ever return those feelings I had… have for you.”

Then silence follows.

Sherlock is not sure whether this is his cue to start or if he will just ball things up again (as he is so famous for it) when he does but letting it all hang there, out in the open, is the worse idea. So he takes a step back, because he really needs to breathe and to actually think straight for a few moments and he can’t do that with John in his space like that. Not that he is able to even form a single coherent thought or make a simple deduction so all he is left to do is react like a normal person – and to ask what he doesn’t know instead of jumping to conclusions.

“What changed?”

John looks up again while stuffing his hands into the small pockets of his pants. “The second video Mary left behind.”

Something that feels suspiciously like a heart leaps in Sherlock’s chest.

“When she said all the stuff about knowing what’s truly inside of us and what we could become… I could feel your gaze on me and notice how tender you were afterwards as if something had changed inside you. As if she has spoken the truth in not only what I think she was talking about but seemingly you too. And for the first time, I felt like maybe I had a chance and I allowed myself to believe in a future with you. I allowed myself to actually want you.”

Being rational and mind-controlled has its perks most of the time yet Sherlock can’t help but think that maybe going after his gut isn’t so wrong in certain situations. For example now, when he has John pressed against his chest with one arm around his back and one hand on his nape, when he can’t even recall why he decided hugging was a good idea. But when the doctor slowly brings his own arms up to cradle Sherlock in the same way, a decision made by heart surely can’t be bad.

“This still doesn’t tell me what you feel,” John mutters into the detective’s shoulder. The morning gown muffles his words yet even without saying anything, Sherlock would have known what his friend tried to say. He knows him after all.

“Elementary, my dear John,” he whispers and pulls back a little, just so he can get a look at the other man’s face, “After all this time I thought you would notice how I behave around you. Even if you are blind when it comes to the most obvious things.”

John shakes his head and chuckles quietly to himself, his gaze yet still not breaking away. “I don’t even know if you are into men.”

“Please,” Sherlock snorts, “When we were working on our first case and you flirted with me, I basically told you.”

When Watson doesn’t offer any kind of confirming reaction, Sherlock continues to talk in the same lecturing voice as if he was explaining a murder to Lestrade.

“You asked me whether I had a girlfriend. I told you that isn’t my area. You said it was fine if I was gay and I responded that I know it’s fine, how come you are not getting this?”

“But… the Woman?”

“Oh please, always so hung up on Miss Adler. I should have seen your jealousy earlier.”

At that, John lets his arms slip from the taller man’s frame and takes a step back with his raised pointer finger almost stabbing the detective in the eye. “I was not jealous!”

Sherlock only quietly smiles to himself, sure that he will probably get punched in the face again if he says a single other word so he shuts his mouth with both hands held up in a clear gesture of defense and innocence. It seems to do the trick when John visibly relaxes. Add to that, he lowers his own guards and his shoulders drop together with his face.

“So what does this mean for us now?”

Huffing out an annoyed sigh, Sherlock shakes his head. “Not even you are enough of an idiot to not know that. After all-”

Lips cut him off quite efficiently. Although it does feel a little awkward at first when Sherlock still has his mouth slightly opened and since he hasn’t done something like this ever since the incident with Janine. Yet he recalls how to do this (at least he thinks he does) and tries give John as much of a good kiss as he deserves. After all, five years of waiting surely have contained a bit of imagination on the doctor’s part. Well, maybe it was not only Watson who has dreamed.  
As much as John has been the one to show confidence at first when he started the kiss, it is Sherlock who keeps him close cradling his face in both hands and in that making sure he won’t get away so quickly. He has lost so much time focusing on his work and on understanding the world around him when he could have been with John in exactly this way – pressed together, joined by the lips and connected deeper than he would have ever considered possible.

Up to this point, Sherlock was not able to grasp the concept of the whole fuss about kissing or being with somebody. Sure, he has seen how it makes people happy, just taking a look at his parents but never once in his lifetime has he imagined that the simple act of his mouth meeting another mouth would trigger this rush of content and joy which is now pulsing through his body. Yet now that he has had it once, he doesn’t want to let it again. Not even for a single minute.

Not even the high screech, the sound of porcelain hitting the carpeted floor and the splash of water from where Mrs. Hudson has dropped their tea upon seeing them bothers him the slightest although John stiffens in his arms. Instead Sherlock just smiles against his soldier’s lips and only lets him go when their housekeeper starts screaming about how she was right and why they kept on denying it for _so bloody long, boys! Oh my poor carpets, well, at least the cups aren’t broken._


End file.
